


Give Me Your Strength

by highlytrainedfangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8004265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highlytrainedfangirl/pseuds/highlytrainedfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock stumbles across John's old dog tags and decides to keep them. He finds himself taking comfort and reassurance from them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Me Your Strength

The silver metal glinted temptingly to Sherlock and like a magpie he snatched it up into his hand. He ran back to his own room, where he sat on the bed, gazing at his prize. In his hands were John's old identification tags. He knew he probably shouldn't take them, but it wasn't like John was using them. He'd never even notice that they were gone.  
Still, Sherlock wanted to hide the fact the he had them. Even if John didn't care about the dog tags, he certainly would care that Sherlock had been rooting through his wardrobe whilst he was at work. But in his defence, John had recently confiscated a set of chemicals from Sherlock that had taken him months to acquire. The fact that they happened to be highly flammable and toxic when inhaled was not his fault.  
Either way it was only logical to search the flat while John was at the clinic. And then he found the dog tags. They represented a part of John’s life he knew about, but was rarely spoken of. He was fascinated by John's military history, but he could never find a way to bring it up. He knew how pained it made John to think about it. Both of horrific events and his longing for his old life.  
But in his hands, in that moment, Sherlock had a relic of that time. He knew it wasn't right to steal them, but it wasn't like John ever used them. He wouldn't even notice they were missing.

 

From then on, Sherlock couldn't help but admire his prize whenever he was alone. The tags lived beneath his pillow and every night he would pull them out and cradle them in his hands. His fingers graced the cool metal, feeling the indentations of letters. Every single night he couldn't resist clutching them to him. Somehow they couldn't help but capture his attention.

 

Sherlock threw himself onto his bed in frustration and sadness. Moriarty’s game had been going too far. For God’s sake that last hostage had been a _child_. All the while he'd had to focus on the case, not the hostages, and it was draining him. He'd never been this deep in while having to keep his mask in place. He knew what those at the yard had said after they'd heard about the child hostage. The called him a freak, psychopath, a sick bastard who didn't care. He couldn't take it.  
Long fingers crept beneath his pillow and pulled out the tags. The feeling of the cool metal instantly helped to calm him. He held his little piece of John to his chest as he lapsed into a fitful sleep.

 

Dammit, dammit, dammit. It had all been planned out, it was all going well, right until John stepped out onto the poolside. He couldn't think straight. And when he realised John wasn't the bomber, but the final hostage… He knew in that moment, no matter what, he'd lost to Moriarty. Because Moriarty had seen though the mask.  
He’d been so relieved once John was safe. The moment the two returned to the flat, Sherlock fled to his room and slammed the door. He knew that John would want Sherlock to stay with him, at least for a while, so that they could both recover from the night’s events. But he couldn't do that. If he stayed with John in his current state, he knew he'd end up doing something that they'd both regret.  
So, he confined himself to his bedroom. He held his precious silver tags, even though he really wanted to hold John. He forced himself to be content with his little piece of John, because he knew he could never have the real thing.  
As his mind slowed, and his thoughts became more organised, Sherlock ran his fingers over the shapes he had memorised by heart. Drawing out every last bit of comfort.

 

Their relationship was falling apart. The two friends were drifting further and further with every passing day. Sherlock knew that they had to, it was necessary to keep John safe from Moriarty. That didn't mean that it didn't ache deep in his heart every step John took away from him. Somewhere along their journey away from each other, Sherlock had taken to wearing the tags all the time. They remained hidden beneath his clothes, out of sight, reassuringly solid against his chest. They stayed there when he slept, they stayed there when he worked. Even as he walked away, a part of John remained with Sherlock, hovering over his heart.

 

As he stood on the roof, wind whipping at his clothes and hair, he stared down at the man on the ground beneath. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to leave John. He didn't want to hurt him. But it was the only way to keep him safe, John would move on. He would recover.  
As he spoke his final words to John, he concentrated on the cool metal against his skin. He needed the strength. Sherlock couldn't let himself cry, he had to stay strong and focus on what he had to do. The tags under his shirt grounded him.  
It was with one final thought to John, and the piece of him laying over his rapidly beating heart, that Sherlock let his feet separate from the roof edge.

 

All throughout his time dismantling Moriarty’s network, Sherlock kept the identification tags with him. On the worst nights they were the only comfort he had, the only thing that kept him fighting. Every time he fell asleep, he did so desperately clinging to his only piece of home. The small, silver treasure that reminded him of his blogger, his beautiful flat mate.  
After being captured in Serbia, the only way he was able to survive was thinking of John. Memories of him and the hope of returning home were the only thing that kept him fighting. There were times when his life outside of the torture seemed to be nothing more than a distant dream. But the metal plates hidden in his pocket kept him sane. They tethered him to his old life, reminding Sherlock that it was all real.

 

None of it went to plan. Of course, none of it went to plan. For two years, Sherlock abandoned his cold, hard logic and let his emotions rule him. He let them be the only things keeping him up and guiding him home.  
And foolishly, he let himself believe that once he was back in London, everything would be normal. He could go back to his old life, maybe even a better one with John. They would forever remain together in 221b.  
But no. In all of Sherlock's stupid delusions, he forgot to account for the fact that John would move on. He came back and John had a girlfriend, soon to be _fiancée_. He'd wanted them to have a perfect reunion, but John had told him that he didn't want to see him again.  
Heart in tatters, Sherlock retreated to the silence of 221b. For the first time he fell asleep on the sofa, openly clutching the tags to his heart, knowing that there would be no one there to see. 

 

The wedding hung over Sherlock's every move. He didn't take a single case, because he knew that he'd never be able to focus on it. Not until John had finally prompted him. The Bloody Guardsman, the Mayfly Man, he knew that they were his last chances to spend time with John properly before losing him for good.  
The ceremony itself was hell. Sherlock looked around as guests smiled joyfully at the happy couple. His chest throbbed as Mary walked down the aisle, looking beautiful. Sherlock forced himself to focus on the chain around his neck, the small pieces of silver plating burning his skin. As the two exchanged their vows he looked over the sea of weepy-eyed guests and felt his own tears staining his face, but for a different reason.

 

Darkness. Solitude. Heartbreak. He lay on the sofa of 221b, wallowing in self pity. Everyone else was still at the wedding. He wondered if anyone even noticed that he was gone. Either way it didn't matter to him; he'd lost John. For good. Sherlock let himself properly cry, for the first time in God knows how long. He let the tears fall across the thin tags, squeezed tight in his grip. The once comforting metal bit into his palms, rounded edges sudden feeling razor sharp. He didn't care. He didn't care how much it hurt to cling onto the he only piece of John he had left.

**Author's Note:**

> This idea just sort of came out of nowhere and I _swear_ it was going to be fluff.


End file.
